I like to write junk...

THUMP THIS

Three people selecting watermelons from a large wooden bin labeled Summer Harvest — Three people choose fresh watermelons at a grocery store’s summer harvest display

I watched my grandmother thump watermelons going back to the 1950s. Mom did the same. I was told that thumping can tell a buyer just which one to choose. I believe it’s more of a ritual than anything scientific, with the thumper merely acting as if they know a good watermelon from a bad one.

Not once have I seen a younger person ask an older adult to thump their melon. They do it themselves, not having an inkling what they’re listening for. If their grandparents instructed them it was probably erroneous information to begin with.

People supposedly thump watermelons because the sound can indicate ripeness and internal texture. When you tap or thump a watermelon, shoppers are usually listening for a deep, hollow, resonant sound. That can suggest the melon has a high-water content and a mature interior.

A dull, flat, or overly dense sound may suggest the melon is underripe, overripe, mealy, or less juicy—though it’s not a perfect test. The practice likely goes back centuries, because people have long used sound to judge the quality of fruits and containers—similar to tapping barrels, gourds, or squash. No wonder so many squash look as if they’ve been abused.

Watermelons have been cultivated for thousands of years, with origins in Africa, but the specific habit of “thumping” watermelons is difficult to date precisely because it was mostly a folk practice passed down informally rather than documented in writing.

I’ve tried to discern the sound of a good watermelon over a bad one by flicking my index finger on the outside. Since I have poor hearing, they all sound the same. The only true means would be to core drill to the inside, but that’s not allowed unless it’s in your own garden.

Mama Haynes grew watermelons, and they were generally always good. She used real cow and horse manure as fertilizer, saying that it made the soil sweet. I had to look this up.

Horse and cow manure are used as fertilizer because they add nutrients to the soil and improve the soil’s ability to hold water and air. As manure breaks down, it releases nutrients such as nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium, which help plants grow strong roots, leaves, vines, flowers, and fruit.

It also adds organic matter, which helps sandy soil retain moisture and loosens heavy clay soil, making it easier for roots to grow. Manure also feeds the tiny organisms in the soil that help break down plant material and turn it into food plants can use.

Fresh manure can be too strong for plants, so it’s usually better to use it after it has aged or been composted before working it into the garden. Aged manure is less likely to burn plants, spread weed seeds, or carry harmful germs. I suppose a good rule to follow here is: “If it’s still steaming, leave it ’til tomorrow evening!”

These days, when I purchase watermelon, I buy the sliced and prepackaged trays because I can see what I’m getting. Some will say this is more expensive, but when I purchased a whole melon, a good portion of it ended up being thrown out.

The practice of thumping melons will undoubtedly continue long after I’m gone. Perhaps someday, an X-ray device will be available to peer inside things. Even then, just as I still do now as I walk by a bin full of melons, I thump one just because I can.

Man in yellow safety vest scanning watermelons with a handheld scanner at market — A woman X-raying watermelons at a grocery store using a handheld device

BAKER’S DOZEN

“To add more drama to the scene I placed both hands behind my back as if I was being handcuffed.”

Security guard assisting elderly woman scanning box of donuts at grocery store self-checkout

I asked a local bakery employee in a grocery store the other day if they offered a baker’s dozen on donuts. The young lady said yes and gave me the price. When I asked if that was for 13, she looked at me as if I were crazy. “No, a dozen is 12!” It was easy to see the gal didn’t know what a baker’s dozen was.

A baker’s dozen means 13 instead of 12, and its history is usually traced to medieval English baking laws—not specifically donuts at first. In medieval England, bread was heavily regulated because it was a staple food. Bakers could be punished for selling underweight loaves.

Since bread weight could vary after baking due to moisture loss, bakers often added an extra loaf when selling a dozen to ensure the customer received at least the required number.

Over time, that “extra” became known as a baker’s dozen. Where donuts are concerned, the phrase carried over naturally because donuts—like bread rolls, pastries, and bagels—are commonly sold by the dozen.

A donut shop offering 13 donuts for the price of 12 is continuing that old “extra one to be safe or generous” tradition, though today it’s more of a customer-friendly bonus or marketing gesture than a legal precaution.

I decided to check around to see if this bakery was the only one not following the old English tradition, and they weren’t. It seems that with the increase in price, a baker’s dozen has been reduced back to 12. Never mind that when you pay, and change is due, you’ll also be shafted any Lincoln pennies.

I believe it’s hocus-pocus how stores now advertise “deals,” as they like to call them. Older folks like me have to carefully read the small print on signs to see just what we’ll be paying.

I don’t know how many times I scanned an item only to see the regular price instead of the sale price at the end of a transaction. Walking back to read the sign, I discovered I needed to purchase another 11 to get the lower price.

Special offers can also be confusing and are undoubtedly subject to change in the near future. BOGO (buy one – get one) will mean exactly that. Folks will be stupefied when they look at their receipt and see they’ve just paid for two.

Shouldn’t this have been BOGT (buy one – get two) to begin with? This reminds me of tactics used by car lots in the 60s and 70s to leave customers mystified. A car would be advertised for a certain price on television, and when a customer came in expecting to buy it, they’d be told it was sold.

Perhaps I am making a mountain out of a molehill. A friend says that when she’s buying a dozen donuts, a thirteenth is stuck in the box without fear. “Who’s gonna open the box and count them?”

It’d be my luck that a store clerk would nab me as I walked away, or worse yet, the AI security camera in the self-checkout would spot things. This actually happened to me with grapes.

I’d placed a sack of them on the scale and in a hurry to get going, picked them up, and put them in the bag without hitting ‘accept weight.’ Everything locked up immediately ─ with a black & white grainy video showing my mistake. The clerk corrected things and said it happens all the time.

By then, those standing in line behind me were watching. To add more drama to the scene I placed both hands behind my back as if I was being handcuffed. Most folks chuckled except one.

The donuts I buy generally go to the chemotherapy lab in Kingman. If they’re short a couple of donuts from here on out it won’t matter as I always take them two dozen.

One thing I’ve been planning on doing but haven’t thus far, is the next time that automated AI produce scale asks if I accept the weight, I’ll decline, just to see what happens. I’m sure I’m not the only person wanting to do that. Will lights and buzzers go off? My wife says that she doesn’t want to be around to see.

Grocery store worker using digital scale to weigh bananas

A SALTY DOG

“I can only imagine how many people eat these things and still use a saltshaker.”

While growing up, with both parents working, my brother and I subsisted on TV dinners, and frozen food packaged in plastic bags, thawed in boiling water. I’m talking 1960 through 1970 here.

Frozen pot pies were also our favorites, especially the chicken and mixed vegetable version. We didn’t have a microwave back then, so a gas oven in our mobile home warmed things up, usually taking about 20–30 minutes. That would be considered an eternity in today’s world.

TV dinners became popular in the United States during the 1950s, when frozen food technology, home freezers, and television culture were all growing quickly.

Although frozen prepared meals existed earlier, the Swanson company helped make the idea famous in 1954 by selling a complete frozen meal in a divided aluminum tray that could be heated in the oven. Ironically, I was born that exact year.

The name “TV dinner” reflected the new habit of families eating conveniently prepared meals while watching television, which had become a major part of American home life. Early TV dinners often included turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, peas, and dessert, and were marketed as modern, time-saving meals for busy households.

Over time, TV dinners changed from simple frozen trays into a wide variety of microwaveable meals, including healthier options, international dishes, and single-serve convenience foods.

Today, TV dinners are remembered as a symbol of postwar American consumer culture and the growing demand for quick, easy meals. For me, they are remembered as something that I could even make.

The other day, I was in the frozen food section of Albertson’s and decided to see what’s now offered in prepared meals. Swanson and Banquet still make them with an unlimited variety compared to when Mom did her shopping.

Lean Cuisine must have at least 30 different frozen food meals to choose from, with some sounding quite delicious, such as Steak Portabella. Checking the calorie and sodium content, I was astonished by how much salt this dinner had, 800 milligrams. That’s enough to ‘cure’ my heart, lungs, and kidneys in one sitting. Chicken Parmesan was another.

After looking at several other such meals, including the Swanson pot pies we ate as kids, I found that sodium was very high in almost all of them. I can only imagine how many people eat these things and still use a saltshaker. The term ‘salt whore’ takes on a whole different meaning here.

That term was humorously coined by a late friend of mine to describe someone who holds the saltshaker hostage during a meal. Rod was an ex-hippie, and he still used some of his creative language up until the day he died. I’m generally guilty of doing the same with pepper.

“A Salty Dog” is a song by Procol Harum. Each time I hear it, I think of my late friend. Rod Sanborn was a big guy who often stopped by our place at lunchtime in the late 1960s while Jim and I were preparing to eat.

Rather than have one turkey or chicken pot pie, he’d have two. Our mother could never figure out why we went through so many. We generally hid the empty tins at the bottom of the trash can.

A few months ago, at a local eatery here in town, some friends ordered the restaurant’s favorite, homemade chicken pot pie. When the server asked for my order, I initially said “Salty dog,” then changed it to “Veggie omelet.” I could see that this employee was initially confused, but she never questioned me. It would’ve taken 10 minutes to explain things.

Salty dog is my term for any pot pie, because almost all are laced with sodium. Evidently, the ones in Black Bear aren’t, as my friends never mentioned it. They were more than large enough, with neither being able to finish theirs.

I recently came up with a clever line for those eating at Rusty’s. That’s my #1 spot in town for breakfast. My favorite is the pancakes. A take-home box is always needed because one is more than enough after a plate of eggs and bacon.

When the delicious “Rusty Special” is ordered, make sure to ask for a side of WD40. The first time I did, the server thought for a few seconds, smiled, and then said, “That’s a good one!”

As lame a joke as it is, my late friend would be proud of me.

Breakfast plate with fried egg, bacon, toast with butter and jam, fresh berries, cup of coffee, glass of orange juice, and can of WD-40 on wooden table — Rusty Special

INCONCEIVABLE?

“Cavemen had things figured out long before Ivan.”

Western Arizona Humane Society building with people walking a dog outside

The Western Arizona Humane Society is located within walking distance of our house, and I often think about strolling over there, yet know what would happen. Two Amazon parrots for us to feed and care for is more than enough responsibility at this stage of life.

Joleen and I do miss having a dog around the house, and just recently took care of two Shih Tzus, “Tucker” and “Jake.” It was a pleasure having their company, and our birds loved it as well.

I’m always on the lookout for irresponsible pet owners and see many around town. Walking a dog on asphalt when it’s 100 degrees outside is nothing but pure torture and animal abuse.

That sun-drenched pavement is more like 140 degrees, hot enough to fry an egg. I feel like walking up to these guilty pet owners and thumping them upside the head with my index finger, while saying, “Hello McFly, is anyone home?”

For those who don’t recognize this unusual statement, it comes from the movie series “Back to the Future.” A big bully in the films, Biff Tannen, thumped Marty McFly on the head numerous times to get his attention. That would probably be considered assault these days and get me arrested or a black eye.

I want to do the same when it’s extremely hot outside, and people have dogs tied up in the backs of their trucks while they drive around in the comfort of their cabs with the air conditioner going full blast.

Worse yet, are those folks leaving animals in vehicles with the engines off while they go inside a store or medical office. Out-of-state weekenders are bad at doing so while they hit the beach at Rotary Park. I’ve called animal control a couple of times over the past 10 years.

Transients panhandling for money on street corners during the summer months with dogs on leashes also gets my goat. The dog is primarily there for sympathy’s sake and used as a tool to garner a few extra bucks.

Over the years, dogs and cats have been inhumanely used in scientific experiments. I remember learning about “Pavlov’s dogs” in psychology class, but never found out what happened to the canines after the experiments were over until just recently.

I was more interested in that above anything else, with the instructor never saying, although she probably knew. In the case of Ivan Pavlov’s dogs, our class wasn’t told that during the fall of Leningrad, Russia, they were eaten.

Ivan Pavlov’s experiment with dogs involved measuring their salivary responses to food, which led him to notice that the dogs began to salivate not only when food was presented but also in response to stimuli associated with food, such as the sound of a bell.

This observation formed the basis of classical conditioning, a learning process in which an animal or human learns to associate an unrelated stimulus with a specific response. The lunch buzzer from my school days is a great example, with kids trying to be first in the cafeteria line.

In his experiments, Pavlov would ring a bell before feeding the dogs, and over time, the dogs learned to associate the bell with the arrival of food, eventually salivating just at the sound of the bell, even when no food was given. This sounds like cruelty to me. That’s like my wife saying it’s time to eat and nothing is prepared.

Pavlov’s work laid the foundation for behaviorism in psychology, illustrating how environmental stimuli can influence behavior through learned associations. German Shepherds were one of the most common breeds used until Beagles came along.

I was never impressed with Pavlov’s experiments, finding that anyone with a teaspoon of common sense would know this information without abusing animals. Cavemen had things figured out long before Ivan, at least the one that Geico employs.

A time may yet come when I take that walk and come back with a doggie on a leash. It won’t happen in summer for obvious reasons. I still have a desire for one breed in particular, the Pekingese, as we had a couple of them over 16 years. Because they are so well loved, not many “Pekes” turn up at the center, according to a former worker there. I can believe that.

It’s too bad that Ivan Pavlov isn’t still alive, because other dog lovers and I would have a bone to pick with him. As a scientific experiment, I’d love to have the man eat dry Purina each day of the week. Common sense tells me by the end of that first feeding, Pavlov would be asking for a bowl of water, perhaps even two.

Scientist with two dogs participating in a classical conditioning experiment with apparatus and bell — Pavlov and two of his many dogs

JAILHOUSE CAFE

“I never got my dream off the ground, but still think of it each time I drive down Highway 95 and see that old building.”

I see that another restaurant in Havasu is closing, with Northside Grill being the latest. Over the years, this has been quite common for various reasons. Rents can increase, or owners are ready to retire with no one coming along to take things over. Sadly, in the case of Scotty’s Broasted Kitchen, Scotty passed away, and the family chose to close the business.

I’m told by former owners that starting a restaurant or café is one of the toughest new businesses to enter. This is because it requires owners to be there before opening and after closing, and having to know all facets of the operation, from dishwashing to cooking.

These long hours go along with managing high food and labor costs, thin profit margins, changing customer demand, constant employee turnover, food spoilage and waste, strict health and safety standards, and intense competition, all while making sure customers receive quality food, fast service, and a positive experience every time they visit.

Owning and operating a restaurant is widely recognized as an incredibly high-stress profession. Chronic stress, poor sleep, and the physical demands of the industry put many owners at a higher risk for cardiovascular disease, gastrointestinal issues, and mental health struggles like anxiety and burnout.

I almost entered the restaurant business here in town without knowing a thing about any of the above. My background was in automotive, and there’s a big difference between turning wrenches and working in food service. My idea would’ve still been successful mainly because I had a unique theme.

In 1991, Joleen and I purchased the old Lake Havasu City Police Department building from the owner. The police had moved out, and the building was unoccupied, yet it still had jail cells and a maze of rooms and cubicles. I had two ideas for it: first, a laundromat, with my ultimate plan being to open the Jailhouse Café.

Our two children were still in school in Anchorage, and my wife was working, so I asked for a vote after we prayed about things on whether we should make the move then. It was three to one that the family stayed put until the kids graduated.

Needing some revenue from the old building, I begrudgingly stripped it with the help of Ron Claspill and others, turning square footage into leasable commercial space. My Jailhouse Café idea vanished with the removal of the heavy bars. I believe that Dub Campbell might’ve ended up with the doors. An original brass key on a large loop was given to the LHPD for their memorabilia collection.

It’s probably for the best I didn’t go into business, because I eventually found out I don’t like stress. Owning a café, undoubtedly, would create a ton of it. I was perfectly happy just dabbling in real estate, but even that didn’t turn my crank as it once did. This was about the time I started writing, and I found it quite stress-relieving, almost as much as working on projects in the garage.

I’d love to see a Jailhouse Café in Lake Havasu City, and perhaps one day that’ll become a reality. It needs to be in a freestanding building, like our old one at 296 London Bridge Road, which is now occupied by a pawn shop and hair salon. We sold that property after I tired of managing things.

Authentic jail cells could easily be constructed using round wood dowels. I know that’s possible because if you look closely at jail scenes in old westerns, most of them, if not all, are made of wood.

For my café, I already had the premier breakfast named. It’d be called ‘The Sheriff’s Special’ with a plate full of vittles as Granny liked to call them. Longtime viewers of “The Beverly Hillbillies” will know what I’m talking about.

Pigs in a blanket would also be on the menu because that was one of my favorites from Leroy’s Pancake House in Anchorage. This fare consisted of three sausage links wrapped in a large pancake. It was delicious.

I never got my dream off the ground, but still think of it each time I drive down Highway 95 and see that old building. Writers are perhaps bigger dreamers than anyone, and to me, that thought alone is still very satisfying.

One of my biggest heroes is a man named Colonel Norman Vaughan. Colonel Vaughan was on the Antarctic mission to the North Pole with Admiral Richard Byrd. He climbed a mountain named after him in his late 90s.

Norman gave a group of us at a book signing the following advice: “Dream big and dare to fail!” I suppose I did on this venture, but in the big scheme of things, failing might’ve been the best thing to ever happen to me from a health perspective!

Waiter behind counter in diner serving plates, smiling at customers

EYES WIDE OPEN

“I’ve observed this several times with couples divorcing and then marrying their ‘soulmates,’ as it’s often erroneously called.”

Older man leaning on fence holding hands with younger woman in countryside

I’ve visited and lived in Lake Havasu City long enough to see some sad things happen, especially with marriages. This occurred not only among younger couples but also older ones.

Distractions seemed to be the biggest factor, though neglect played a significant role as well. When I say distractions, I mean that the grass is not always greener on the other side of the fence.

I’ve observed this several times with couples divorcing and then marrying their “soulmates”, as it’s often erroneously called. Only after a short time do they find that their precious soulmate is a loser.

Alcohol and drugs are another reason for divorce, with husbands and wives overindulging here, and these stimulants making them do and say things they normally wouldn’t. Domestic violence is the byproduct, and we hear and read about this all the time.

Our local police waste more time answering domestic violence calls than perhaps any other, besides e-bikes. This is a dangerous situation for them, as both parties can quickly turn on law enforcement.

The relationship between alcohol and drugs and domestic violence is significant, as substance abuse often leads to impaired judgment and aggressive behavior, increasing the likelihood of violent incidents within homes.

When individuals overindulge in alcohol or drugs, they may act in ways they normally wouldn’t, resulting in conflicts and escalated tension in relationships. This happens daily throughout the US.

This pattern can create a cycle of abuse, where the consequences of substance misuse lead to further emotional and physical harm, ultimately straining the family dynamics and contributing to a toxic environment.

Years ago, in our neighborhood, we had a young couple going through this ritual, arguing verbally, with the wife often knocking on our door for help. She sometimes had bruises on her face and body. The husband was downright dangerous when intoxicated, yet a real gentleman when sober.

This couple eventually split the sheets, and I still bump into the ex-husband on occasion. He gives me a stern look but never says a thing, evidently still harboring a grudge that Joleen and I helped out his spouse when he’d threatened to kill her. In this case, the woman did the right thing in leaving him before the guy actually did.

The following short poem traces the life of another such couple, with names changed and other personal details omitted. In this situation, things turned out for the good only because of divine intervention.

This was an exception because, as far as I recall, all other marital dilemmas I encountered had a continuing theme of excessive alcohol use and abuse, with them separating and then days later getting back together. The saga constantly repeated itself.

Some might claim that I’m preaching here, but for me, I simply try to go through life with a clear mind and eyes wide open.

“Eddie moved to Havasu in the summer of ’94.

He was a recently retired manager at Montgomery Wards.

Took his big pension and bought a house, speedboat, and pricey cars.

After 40 years of work, he thought he deserved much, much more.

*****

Eventually, the juice went up, including gas, trash, and water.

His wife then got extremely hot under the collar.

Especially when hubby made her take a job at Family Dollar.

While he stayed home, downing beers with good friend, Roger.

*****

Over time, Ed was forced to sell his many pristine toys.

Even a bright red 1961 Corvette, his pride and joy.

Ann soon met an ex-con from Joliet, Illinois.

A snowbird, he sweet-talked her into cutting the cord.

*****

Eddie was left with an old house falling apart.

And a 2006 Grand Cherokee that would barely start.

Seeing the ill of his ways, he let Jesus change his heart.

Back on his feet, Ed gave up drinking, which was more than smart.

*****

Before long, the wife returned, and Eddie took her back.

Both now go to church, singing songs, free from the past.

It’s obvious to me that this marriage will finally last.

No thanks to Budweiser, but through the healing grace of Jesus Christ.”

Colossians 3:13-14

Couple sitting on a towel on a sandy beach near a lake with boats and mountains behind them.

HAVAFAD?

“A fad is something that becomes very popular for a short time and then quickly goes out of style.”

Older women exercising with hula hoops in Rotary Park on a sunny day

I’ve seen a lot of fads come and go in my lifetime, with hula hoops being number one, along with roller blades. I took part in both and found them fun for a short time, until the excitement faded.

Unable to conquer a hula hoop, the device was rolled to a nearby trash receptacle and slam-dunked, while the roller blades were tossed when a fastening device broke. They were cheap ones to begin with.

Nehru jackets were a fad in the 60s, made famous by the Beatles. Tight-fitting clothes weren’t my bag back then, and still aren’t, although I’ve threatened to start wearing spandex shorts and shirt along with some “bling” around my neck. I observed an old codger sporting such at Rotary Park beach. My wife laughingly called it trolling, but I don’t know what he was trolling for.

A fad is something that becomes very popular for a short time and then quickly goes out of style. People often follow a fad because it seems exciting or trendy at the moment. For example, a game that everyone wants to play for a few years, then forgets about, is a fad.

Paintball comes to mind here. Will pickleball become a fad? Only time will tell. Another example is a dance challenge that becomes popular for a short time before disappearing. Limbo is a prime example.

Smoking started as a popular pastime and, for many, was tied to social status and cultural identity. In the early to mid-20th century, it was heavily marketed and glamorized in films, advertising, and among celebrities. The 1942 movie “Dancing in the Rain” featured a line of choreographed dancers smoking on stage. Each time I see it, I crack up.

This Hollywood promotion contributed to its widespread acceptance and popularity, making it seem like a fad. Thankfully, I never took part in this one as an adult, although I pretended to smoke and then eat my candy cigarettes as a kid. I remember them as being somewhat ‘chalky’ but good.

While it was once considered fashionable, smoking eventually became stigmatized, especially as bans were implemented in public spaces and smoking rates began to decline.

So, while smoking may have initially appeared as a fad due to its popularity and promotion, it turned into a significant public health issue. Today, smoking is less of a trend and more of a health concern, with many people seeking to quit or avoid smoking altogether. There was a time when adults would stand outside their workplaces, smoking and chatting. It was quite common to see.

Vaping has seemingly taken hold, with unconcerned users enjoying the effects of toxic, fruit-flavored chemicals on their lungs. I believe some find it “cool” to blow pathogen-contaminated vapor out of their vehicle windows.

I make sure my windows are rolled up when this happens. I’ve heard that vaping is far more harmful to the body than tobacco use. Of course, vape shop owners will totally disagree, and they should know.

Hacky sack used to be popular with young people, but I rarely see it being played anymore. For those that aren’t hip to the term, a hacky sack is a round sock stuffed full of sand that’s kicked from one player to the next. The object is for the hacky sack to never hit the ground. I’ve never played it, because to me, doing so looks stupid. I only say that to avoid offending anyone.

I thought some fads were on the comeback, because on occasion, during cooler months, I spotted a group of older women with hula hoops at Rotary Park. This was a couple of years ago, and I haven’t seen them since.

Did they stop as I finally did sixty years ago by disgustingly rolling their hoops over to a dumpster? I hope not, because it was fun to watch them try. I thought about joining in, but the thought of a disconnected and ulcerated pelvis stopped me short.

I’ve yet to see a group of similarly aged men standing in a circle playing hacky sack. This will probably happen for several reasons, one of which is that replacement knees and hips aren’t cheap.

They say that some people revert to their childhood ways as they get older. I’ve thought about trying another candy cigarette for memory’s sake, but couldn’t find any for sale in local stores. I believe back in the 50s and 60s, like real cigarettes, kids could buy a carton.

I’ve been waiting for the day when I’d spot a group of people standing outside their workplace vaping. Well, that finally happened, with at least four workers evidently on break, blowing steam that’d equal that of an early locomotive.

I sat in my Jeep, chuckling at how stupid it looked. It reminded me of a cartoon I recently saw on why dinosaurs became extinct. All they needed to finish off their act was a hacky sack. I only say that to avoid offending anyone.

Four warehouse workers standing outside, one kicking a ball while others vape and smile — Warehouse workers enjoy a casual break outside their workplace.

BLIND AS A BAT

“I’ve not seen any mules wandering the desert around Oatman.”

Donkeys walking freely on the dirt street of Oatman, Arizona, with wooden storefronts and visitors

I’ve heard the statement, “Blind as a bat!” many times, yet I have never come across “Blind as a mule.”

Mules and donkeys have long been used as pack animals in mining operations due to their strength, endurance, and ability to navigate rugged terrain. Historically, they’d carry heavy loads of rich ore and other materials in and out of mines, especially in areas where mechanized transport was impractical. When they were no longer needed, the poor beasts were released to fend for themselves.

One significant issue that arose from the use of these animals in mines is their susceptibility to developing blindness, particularly due to conditions encountered in dark, enclosed spaces.

The environment in mines can be harsh, with dust, debris, and limited light exposure, which can lead to various eye problems. In some cases, prolonged exposure to darkness and poor ventilation can cause health issues, including vision impairment.

Years ago, burros and mules were used in mines in Oatman and Gold Road, yet you seldom hear of the abuses they endured. Today, burros freely roam the Oatman area and are a favorite of locals and tourists. That wasn’t the case back in the 1920s, as this newspaper article from the June 23, 1922, “Arizona Daily Star” (Tucson) points out.

“Oatman, Ariz., June 10. Sixty blind mules, born and raised in the Gold Road mines, two miles from Oatman, were recently brought to the surface and liberated when electrical equipment installed in the mine made their services no longer needed.

The mules have been wandering the dangerous, winding roads in the canyons between Oatman and Kingman along the national highway used by all tourists coming to Arizona and California.

Several bad accidents recently caused the Oatman town authorities to give the mules coats of phosphorus paint so they can be seen in the dark. The mules can now be seen a hundred feet away.”

Town officials probably thought this was a smart thing to do back then, to reduce accidents, but their actions inflicted a slow torture on these animals. The following is just a short warning regarding luminous paint.

Placing paint containing phosphorus (specifically white phosphorus) on skin is extremely dangerous. White phosphorus can cause severe, deep chemical and thermal burns and can be absorbed into the system, potentially damaging the liver, kidneys, and heart.

I’ve not seen any mules wandering the desert around Oatman. Perhaps the phosphorus back then wiped out the entire population, although the burros are still plentiful. They’re still struck by vehicles, mostly at night, even though drivers are warned to slow down.

A lesson to be learned from the mistakes of early Oatman officials, is that harmless reflective collars should perhaps be placed on the remaining survivors instead of hazardous paint.

These collars weren’t available back then, and even if they were, it’s doubtful city leaders would spend the money on what they probably considered worthless animals at this point.

Even with these reflective collars, some folks will continue to hit the burros with their vehicles. “Blind as a bat” still has solid meaning, with a sizable number of drivers living proof. Sadly, we read about these people daily.

Five donkeys wearing reflective collars stand on a dark desert road at night facing a car with headlights on

“Arizona Daily Star” – Tucson – June 23, 1922

BARNACLE BILL

“Perhaps the renowned Dr. Brownstein should invent some magical elixir as he has for practically every other bodily ill.”

Elderly sailor wearing a navy sweater and leather jacket with anchor tattoo on hand sitting on sailboat deck with pipe — Barnacle Bill the Sailor

Twice a year, I make a pilgrimage to Arizona Desert Dermatology for Tammy to look at my face, back, arms, and legs for signs of skin cancer. She’s found a few pre-cancerous spots that were zapped with what I believe is liquid nitrogen. It’s best to catch them early before melanoma has a chance to rear its ugly head.

On the last couple of visits, I showed her a couple of bumps in my scalp that I wanted removed. Tammy said that they were “barnacles” and for me to leave them alone. She then zapped them with nitrogen, which will make the unwanted stowaways fall off.

I’d been scratching at the small, raised areas, making them bleed. I’ve only heard of this term from whales and other marine creatures, including rocks and boats. These marine entities accumulate barnacles when in the water for extended periods.

Barnacle Bill is a character from the traditional sea shanty “Barnacle Bill the Sailor.” The song is often associated with sailors and has a playful, humorous tone, typically depicting Bill’s adventures and misadventures.

I sang it as a kid, only remembering the first few lines of the original song from a movie. Some revised versions are beyond raunchy. In various interpretations, Barnacle Bill is portrayed as a rough-and-tumble sailor who has encounters with the sea, women, and the challenges of maritime life. Evidently, he had a barnacle dilemma that earned him that derogatory nickname.

The life of an early sailor was a hard one. Early sailors faced a multitude of hardships that made their lives challenging. One of the primary difficulties was the harsh environment at sea. They were often exposed to treacherous weather conditions, including storms, high winds, and rough seas, which could lead to shipwrecks or life-threatening situations.

Additionally, the living conditions on ships were typically cramped and unsanitary. Sailors had to deal with limited food supplies, mainly consisting of stale bread, salted meat, and other perishable rations.

Fresh water was also scarce, leading to dehydration and disease. The lack of proper nutrition resulted in health problems, including scurvy, caused by vitamin C deficiency.

Moreover, the social structure aboard ships could be strict and hierarchical, leading to a tough atmosphere. Sailors had to follow orders from their superiors, and discipline was often enforced harshly. The isolation from family and friends during long voyages added to their emotional burden.

I’m not sure how I ended up with barnacles, with Tammy saying it was inherent in certain people, especially older folks. There are all kinds of skin potions aimed at wrinkled skin, but I’ve never seen barnacle remover advertised on television. Perhaps the renowned Dr. Brownstein should invent some magical elixir as he has for practically every other bodily ill.

Where Barnacle Bill is concerned, it must’ve been hard for him to date women with the old sailor looking like an encrusted whale. I’m glad that my bumps came along long after I married my wife.

Telling a girlfriend, “Oh, those are just barnacles,” sounds like grounds for being dumped. Hopefully, my bumps will eventually fall off in the shower. I’d hate to be at a friend’s house and lose them.

Someone would invariably stoop down and ask, “Michael, are these barnacles yours?” In this case, I’d have to sheepishly reply, “No, not mine. Perhaps you should ask Bill!”

Humpback whale covered in barnacles swimming underwater with fish

DEM BONES

“Of course, with the price of beef these days, a single helping of ribs along with side dishes will be close to $30.”

Multiple motorboats with passengers cruising on a scenic river with arched stone bridge and rocky mountains

When I lived full-time in Alaska, one of my favorite places to eat was Sizzler Steakhouse. At one point, there were three locations in Anchorage alone. Sometime in the late 70s or early 80s, a television and radio commercial came out advertising all-you-can-eat barbecued ribs at Sizzler for $6.99.

The song or jingle that accompanied this advertisement went something like this: “Dem bones, dem bones, dem prime rib bones.” I cracked up each time that commercial came on.

All Sizzler restaurants in Alaska closed by the late 1980s. There was a Sizzler in Yuma when my family went there on vacation, yet it’s now shuttered as well. The closest Sizzler Steakhouse to Lake Havasu City is in Flagstaff, some 207 miles away.

Of course, with the price of beef these days, a single helping of ribs along with side dishes will be close to $30. I never ate the BBQ ribs, but I liked their steak. At this stage, with premium gas close to $5 a gallon, I’m not driving 400 miles round-trip to Flagstaff for a good Ribeye steak when Montana Steakhouse is 1.4 miles away.

Flagstaff may have a Sizzler, but we have something even better, ‘dem boats’. Boat season is fast upon us, and I drool each time I see one of those large high-horsepower babies being towed behind a monster truck. “Dem boats, dem boats, dem shiny big boats.”

Always carrying a camera in our vehicle, I’ve snapped many a photo of them fueling up at local gas stations and sent these pictures to my friends and family in Alaska. While Alaskans brag that the largest fish caught in Lake Havasu would make good bait in their state, they can’t one-up us in the mega speedboat department.

I snapped a photo of one offshore-type craft sporting five outboard engines. I believe the total horsepower was around 2,000. Fueling it one time would have me headed back to work to pay the bill. I suppose doctors, attorneys, and plumbers are the folks owning these expensive machines.

Several years back, when I was in Havasu on business, I had the opportunity to ride on one courtesy of an invite from Ron Claspill. Ron had a friend named Rusty who owned it. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the same Rusty of Rusty’s Café fame, although this guy once had red hair back in the day.

It was during a weekday, and we covered the whole lake from Topock to the dam in quick fashion, even taking time to stop on the California side for a burger and Coke. I got to take the helm for a few minutes, but never fully opened up the throttle.

During that excursion, a cheap pair of my sunglasses committed Jisatsu by leaving my head and jumping overboard. I was ever thankful that they weren’t Oakley’s.

Those cool boats will remain in town for several months, brightening the scenery with their vibrant colors, yet come October, they slowly begin to disappear as humongous land yachts start their pilgrimage west, towing ‘dinghies’ behind them. This is what RVers like to call their smaller shuttle vehicles.

The names Conquest, Nordic, Advantage, Domn8ter, and DCB will be replaced by Phaeton, Tiffin, Newmar, Prevost, Fleetwood, and Holiday Rambler. Captains of these land-based RVs are a much different breed from powerboat owners, with age being the biggest factor.

Despite a difference in age and machines they drive, along with music listened to, there’s one thing that powerboat and RV owners share alike: “Dem bones.” I’ve seen ribs being barbecued out on the lake on boats while the landlocked gang does the same near the front door of their homes on wheels.

When it comes to sizzling meat, the old and young both love to eat!

Group of people eating ribs and drinking on a pontoon boat on a lake — Friends enjoy ribs and drinks together on a pontoon boat at the lake